The Last Promise
by ASingleSplendidSong
Summary: One-shot with the possibility of expansion. A reflection upon the two greatest loves of the Phantom's life. Erik asks one last thing of the one who has stayed with him regardless of his pain, anger and madness about the girl who made his dreams come true. One last promise to soothe a lifetime of silence and one last gift to the soprano who stole his heart.


Good evening, fellow phans. This is another one-shot about Erik and Christine, but with an added character who has known Erik better than any one of us can fathom. No, it is not 'another woman' phanfic, or one about his mother or Lucianna, but someone who has stayed with him and never left. I'm sure you're all curious. I hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think by leaving a quick review. What spurred me to upload this was actually a guest called 'Christine' reviewing on a previous story of mine, telling me that it was 'beautiful.' So, 'Christine', thank you for your kind words and I hope you review again.

Without further ado, I present:

* * *

The spaces between the silences ached of _her_.

He couldn't bear to look at an organ, lest the memories of their lessons together return and great racking sobs would strike his body without mercy. Any manuscript paper or score was like seeing his own death warrant. Even a melody, a simple tune hummed in the street positively screamed her name.

It wasn't just that though. If it had just been music, Erik thought to himself, then he might have been able to continue as though she hadn't been there.

_As if, _came the retort his brain gave him, quick and sharp like a knife.

Roses had that god awful stench of loneliness and loss. Golden angels of any shape or size made him want to wring the sculptor's neck out. Even moonlit lakes whispered songs of sorrow. He couldn't eat anymore, let alone sleep. She haunted his dreams like nothing before. He would wake up, breathing hard and fast, sweat-slicked in Egyptian cotton as he felt the barest linger of soft lips against his.

He tried to compose after that, but it was beyond futile. There was no point. Everything he had ever been – his love, his pain, his hate, his passion – _everything_ was poured into his music and he had anointed her sweet voice with _his_ music. Like a baptism, he had washed hours and hours of devotion and thought upon her and emerged, fresh from the waters, like a new man – a _true _man as much as she had emerged with a siren's voice. Erik had always believed himself below the human race, but with her, her naiveté, he felt – for the first time ever – like a man.

How could he _not_ fall in love with her?

She had taken everything but only because he had so foolishly placed everything at her feet. He had handed her his heart, battered and bruised, but beating like a soldier's drum – strong and powerful - on a silver platter, full of sweet promises and red roses and she had spurned it, taken it between those slender fingers and crushed it like it was nothing but a child's sandcastle. He had bequeathed upon her his trust and his compassion; two things no other being in the world would ever know.

But more than anything and more than everything, he had taken his _music_. _Music. _The one muse who had not run away, being blind and relying upon her ears; she, through the terror that had plagued him, Music had always stayed with him. She had been the one to comfort and protect him, to take his anger and violence time and time again, to bear the brunt of his madness and sorrow. She had even been able to love him through his love of Christine – nay, she had _taught_ him _how_ to love Christine. But Christine had led Music by the hand and with a graceful flick of her curls and twist of slim hips, had danced away in a flurry of tears and broken promises. That night, as Erik looked upon her retreating figure, the ring digging upon his skin, he saw the ethereal sylphide following her, as captivated by her charms as he had been.

The last thing he had ever said to the one whom had made life worth living about the one who had made his dreams come true was simple, no more than five words, but like a benediction, he would often repeat it to himself when the pain of reality became too much. He knew that Music would keep her promise to him, unlike Christine, for she could not see his face and could not be repulsed by his ugliness. He knew that Music would cradle her in his arms each night while his were empty, crooning soft lullabies 'til she slept; he knew that Music would be her food and wine while he went hungry; he knew that Music would keep her happy and safe and fill her every waking hour with joyous song while silence reigned forevermore in the Phantom's mind.

_Look after her for me._

* * *

__There we have it. I've always thought of Music as a separate entity in many of these stories and it amuses me to think that Erik might have had his own 'Angel of Music' to help him through those rough and weary years. Nonetheless, the concept in itself is touching and I'm glad I could share it with you today.

_Bonsoir et merci pour votre temps,_

_Good night and thank you for your time,_

**_BlueRoseParamour_**


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